Crenshaw (7 page)

 

29

Crenshaw and I
didn't chat much during those weeks on the road. There was always someone around to interrupt us. But that was okay. I knew he was there and that was enough.

Sometimes that's all you really need from a friend.

When I think about that time, what I remember most of all is Crenshaw, riding on top of our minivan. I'd stare out the window at the world blurring past, and every so often I'd catch a glimpse of his tail, riding the wind like the end of a kite.

I'd feel hopeful then, for a while at least, that things would get better, that maybe, just maybe, anything was possible.

 

30

I guess for
most kids, imaginary friends just sort of fade away, the way dreams do. I've asked people when their imaginary friends stopped hanging around, and they never seem to remember.

Everybody said the same thing: I guess I just outgrew him.

But I lost Crenshaw all of a sudden, after things got back to normal. It was like when you have a favorite T-shirt that you've worn forever. One day you put it on, and surprise: Your belly button is showing. You don't remember growing too big for your shirt, but sure enough, there's your belly button, sticking out for the whole wide world to see.

The day he left, Crenshaw walked to school with me. He did that most mornings unless he wanted to stay home and watch
Blue's Clues
reruns
.
We stopped at the playground. I was telling him about how I wanted to get a real cat someday.

That was before I found out my parents are extremely allergic to cats.

Crenshaw stood on his head. Then he did a cartwheel. He was an excellent cartwheeler.

When he came to a stop, he gave me a grumpy look. “
I'm
a cat,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“I'm a
real
cat.” His tail whipped up and down.

“I mean,” I said, “you know—a cat other people can see.”

He batted a paw at a yellow butterfly. I could tell he was ignoring me.

A bunch of big guys, fourth and fifth graders, walked by. They pointed at me and laughed, making cuckoo circles with their fingers.

“Who you talking to, doofus?” one asked, and then he snort-laughed.

That is my least favorite kind of laughing.

I pretended not to hear him. I knelt down and tied my shoe like it was a very important thing I had to do.

My face was hot. My eyes were wet. I'd never been embarrassed about having an imaginary friend until that moment.

I waited. The boys moved on. Then I heard someone else approaching. She wasn't walking. More like skip-dancing.

“Hey, I'm Marisol,” said the girl. I'd seen her at recess before. She had long, dark, crazy hair and an unusually large smile. “I have a Tyrannosaurus backpack just like yours. I'm going to be a paleontologist when I grow up, which means—”

“I know what it means,” I said. “I want to be one too. Or maybe a bat scientist.”

Her smile got even bigger.

“I'm Jackson,” I said, and I stood.

When I looked around me, I realized that Crenshaw had vanished.

 

31

I've sometimes wondered
if I was kind of old to have an imaginary friend. Crenshaw didn't even show up in my life until the end of first grade.

So one day at the library, I looked it up. Turns out somebody did a study on children and their imaginary friends. Fact is, 31 percent of them had an imaginary friend at age six or seven, even more than three- and four-year-olds.

Maybe I wasn't so old after all.

In any case, Crenshaw had excellent timing. He came into my life just when I needed him to.

It was a good time to have a friend, even if he was imaginary.

 

PART THREE

The world is so you have something to stand on

—
A HOLE IS TO DIG: A FIRST BOOK OF FIRST DEFINITIONS,

written by Ruth Krauss and illustrated by Maurice Sendak

 

32

It occurred to
me that Crenshaw's return—the night of the kitty bubble bath, as I came to think of it—might be a sign that I was right about my parents. It was coming again—the moving, the craziness. Maybe even the homelessness.

I told myself I'd just have to face facts and make the best of it. It wouldn't be the first time we'd hit a rough spot.

Still and all. I'd been hoping to get Ms. Leach for fifth grade. Everybody said she liked to explode stuff for science experiments. And Marisol and I had our dog-walking business going pretty well. And I'd been looking forward to trying out the new skate park when they got it built in January. And maybe even doing rec soccer, if we could come up with the money for a uniform.

It would be easier for Robin. You could move her anywhere and she'd be fine. She made friends in an instant. She didn't have to worry about real stuff.

She was still a kid.

I lay on my mattress as the list of things I was going to miss kept getting longer. I told my brain to take a time-out. Sometimes that actually works.

Not so much, this round.

Last year, my principal told me I was an “old soul.” I asked what that meant, and he said I seemed wise beyond my years. He said it was a compliment. That he liked the way I always knew when someone needed help with fractions. Or the way I emptied the pencil sharpener without being asked.

That's the way I am at home, too. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes I feel like the most grown-up one in the house. Which is why it seemed like my parents should have known they could talk to me about grown-up stuff.

And why it seemed like they should tell me the truth about moving.

Last fall a big raccoon got into our apartment through an open window. It was two in the morning. Aretha barked like a maniac and we all ran to see what was wrong.

The raccoon was in the kitchen, examining a piece of Aretha's dog chow. He held it in his little hands proudly, like he'd discovered a big brown diamond. He was not even a tiny bit afraid of us.

He nibbled his diamond carefully. He seemed glad we'd joined him for dinner.

Aretha leaped onto the couch. She was barking so loud I thought my ears would fall off.

Robin ran to get her baby buggy in case the raccoon wanted to go for a ride. My mom called 911 to report a home invasion.

My dad, who only had on his sock monkey pajama bottoms, turned on his electric guitar and made this earsplitting screechy sound to scare off the raccoon.

“Don't you dare go near that animal,” my mom warned Robin. She pointed to her cell phone and shushed us. “Yes, Officer, yes. 68 Quiet Moon. Apartment 132. No, he's not attacking anyone. He's eating dog food. Dog chow, actually. Not the wet kind. Kids, stay away. He could be rabid.”

“He's not a rabbit, Mommy,” Robin said as she wheeled her baby buggy in circles around the living room. “I'm pretty sure he's a beaver.”

For a while I just watched them all go crazy. It was kind of entertaining.

Finally I whistled.

I have a really good whistle for a kid. I use my pinkie fingers.

Everyone stopped and stared. Even the raccoon.

“Guys, just sit on the couch,” I said. “I've got this.”

I walked to the front door and opened it.

That's all I did. Just opened it.

Fog drifted. Frogs chatted. The waiting world was calm.

Everyone sat on the couch. I kept Aretha quiet with her squirrel chew toy. It was covered with dog slobber.

We watched the raccoon finish his food. When he was done, he waddled past us like he owned the place and headed for the open door. He glanced over his shoulder before he left. I could almost hear him muttering
Next time I go to a different place. This family is nuts.

Lately, I felt like I always had to be on alert for the next raccoon invasion.

 

33

Saturday morning, I
woke up, went into the living room, and found a big empty spot where our TV had been. The room looked naked without it.

My dad was making breakfast. Pancakes and bacon. We hadn't had pancakes and bacon in a really long time.

Robin was sitting at the kitchen table. Aretha was drooling, and Robin's chin was gooey with syrup. “Daddy made my pancakes shaped like Rs. For Robin.”

“Do you have a letter preference?” my dad asked me.

He was using his cane, which meant he wasn't feeling great. “You okay?” I asked.

“The cane?” He shrugged. “Just a little insurance policy.”

I hugged him. “Plain old circle pancakes would be great,” I said. “Where's Mom?”

“Picked up an extra breakfast shift at Toast.”

“Daddy sold the TV to Marisol,” Robin said. She jutted out her lower lip to make sure we knew she wasn't happy.

“Marisol?” I repeated.

“I saw her dad while I was taking out the trash,” my dad said as he poured perfect circles of batter into a pan. “We were talking about the game today, and how his TV had conked out, and one thing led to another. He had the cash, I had the TV, and the rest is history.”

“But how are you and I going to watch the game?” I asked.

“We're going to Best Buy it.”

I grabbed a strip of bacon. “What's that mean?”

My dad adjusted the heat on the stove. “You'll see. Where there's a will, there's a way.”

“Aretha liked watching
Curious George
,” said Robin. She set down her plate and Aretha licked it clean.

“You may be interested to hear that Curious George began his existence as a character in a book,” said my dad as he flipped a pancake. “In any case, this family needs to spend more quality time together. You know—play cards, maybe. Or Monopoly.”

“I like Chutes and Ladders,” said Robin.

“Me too.” My dad tossed a little chunk of bacon to Aretha. “Too much TV rots your brain.”

“You love TV,” I said while I started loading the dishwasher.

“That's because TV's already rotted it. There's still hope for you two.”

It didn't take long for my breakfast to be ready. “Nice work on the pancakes,” I said.

“Thanks. I do have a certain flair.” My dad pointed his spatula at me. “I saw Marisol when Carlos and I were carrying in the TV. She said to remind you about the Gouchers' dachshunds.”

“Yeah, we're walking them tomorrow.”

“Are dachshunds wiener dogs?” Robin asked.

“Yes, ma'am.” My dad nodded. “You know, Jacks, I haven't seen much of Dawan or Ryan or anybody else lately. What's up with that?”

“I dunno. Dawan and Ryan are doing soccer camp. Everybody does different stuff in the summer.”

My dad put some dishes in the sink. His back was turned to me. “I'm really sorry about soccer camp, Jacks. Just couldn't swing it.”

“No biggie,” I said quickly. “I'm kind of growing out of soccer.”

“Yeah,” my dad said softly. “That happens.”

I stared at the sweet steam spinning from my pancakes. I tried hard not to think about Marisol watching our TV, feeling sorry for us while we played Chutes and Ladders and ate bran cereal out of a T-ball cap.

Then I tried not to be annoyed at myself for worrying about something so unimportant.

I grabbed my fork and knife and sliced up my pancakes.

“Whoa,” said my dad. “Ease up, Zorro.”

I looked up, confused. “Who's Zorro?”

“Masked guy. Good with swords.” My dad pointed to my plate. “You were getting a little carried away with the slice-and-dice action.”

I looked down at my pancakes. It was true. I'd destroyed them pretty well. But that wasn't what got my attention.

In the middle of the plate, surrounded by maple-syrup mush, were slices of pancake, neatly forming eight letters:
C - R - E - N - S - H - A - W
.

Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe not. In any case, I scarfed them down before anyone could notice.

 

34

After my mom
came home, my dad and I headed for Best Buy. We stopped at the bank, and while my dad stood in line, I grabbed two free suckers, one for me and one for Robin. I always pick purple. If there are no purples, reds are pretty good.

I am not a big fan of yellows.

We were lucky to live in Northern California, I figured. It's really beautiful, except for when there are wildfires or mudslides or earthquakes. Even better, it's a great place to find free food, if you know where to look. The farmers' market at the Civic Center parking lot is a great spot because they give you samples, things like honey in a straw or peanut brittle. Grocery stores are good too, the ones where they have free cantaloupe pieces on a toothpick. Our local hardware store gives away little bags of popcorn on Saturdays, so that's an option, if you get there early enough.

If you're hungry, you wouldn't want to live in Alaska, I'll bet. They probably don't have outdoor farmers' markets very often. Although in Alaska they do have grizzly bears. I would very much enjoy meeting one of those guys.

From a nice, safe distance. A grizzly bear's front claws can be four inches long.

Around here, it's easier to be hungry in winter than in summer. Most people wouldn't expect that, but during the school year you can get free breakfast and lunch and sometimes after-school snacks. Last year they stopped having summer school because there wasn't enough money. So that means no breakfast or lunch when school's out.

They do have free food at the community center food pantry, but that's pretty far away. My dad doesn't like to go there. He says he doesn't want to take food from people who really need it. But I think maybe he doesn't like to go because everyone in line looks so tired and sad.

After the bank, we went to Best Buy, which is this giant store filled with TVs and computers and cell phones and things.